


off-road

by deadbeatfreak99



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Music, M/M, almost break-up, rocky relationship, songfic kinda, sort of fluffy, woojin suffers i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-16 13:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20821559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadbeatfreak99/pseuds/deadbeatfreak99
Summary: ❝What if we're just hurting each other more by staying together?❞《In which lakes have frozen over, but there's still life within their cold waters.》





	1. ↳ 0: astray : prologue

**Author's Note:**

> originally completed on wattpad 9/03/2019
> 
> inspired by tvxq's song off-road: https://youtu.be/ya2Q_rcBucA
> 
> spotify playlist link: https://open.spotify.com/user/ltmv1akncmgjlstc4y6lcnhit/playlist/5itkWiDKhnCJV7dgPhHI0F?si=YnAJxbCqR8iLapUENO0GMA
> 
> ↳ = Chapter recounts the present  
↺ = Chapter recounts the past

White: soft, pure and delicate as a colour. His knuckles were white but tainted by a violent red, trails of it drawing an intricate web along his skin.

"You didn't have to go so far."

His lover's mumbled words eased his heart and pricked at his lingering anger.

"I clearly couldn't control myself, could I?"

He had spat the response with venom laced in each syllable, and yet the pale man at his side didn't falter one bit, breathing steady and gaze intent on the road ahead.

"And now you're getting blood all over your car, aren't you?"

Choosing to not retaliate, he tightened even further his grip on the stirring wheel as he rounded a wide bend.

Trees were nothing short of a mesmerising green at their windows, and the finely layered snow nothing short of a trigger － a key which was forcing its way into a lock in his memory.

They were happy once, he could swear they were, and now here he was, eyes sore and swollen, mentally exhausted, drained, a throbbing in his fists and an unease nestled within his ribcage.

They were happy together, they were. Hugs and shared jokes, partaking in cliché couple activities and confessing sappy secrets into one another's ears as they embraced beneath the warmth of their duvets, so deep into the heart of night that they were more early mornings.

The two were so in love that they had become one, but somewhere along the way, the cracks grew deeper and their pain grew stronger.

They were no longer a united piece. No, rather they were simply themselves as separate individuals. Nothing more, nothing less.

He was Minho, his lover was Chan.

His eyebrows knitted together as he forced his dry throat to swallow, and felt it strongly constrict as it did.

The air inside the run-down car suffocated his already starving lungs and wrapped around his neck as a noose would, preventing any words that wanted to leave him from being voiced.

Minho blinked.

Maybe he had taken a wrong turn.


	2. ↺ 1: blizzard

It tugged and shoved, mercilessly chilled and nipped at his exposed flesh, a wind through which so passionately danced snowflakes, embedding themselves into his knotted tufts of hair that were no more orderly than he was.

Minho burrowed his frostbitten hands against his chest and beneath his crossed over arms, which he desperately coiled around himself in a hug.

The time wasn't much past afternoon, and yet the neighbourhood was a white cemetery, not a mobile car in sight and not the hum of a voice in the distance.

Seventeen years of age and just barely able to withstand the sudden blizzard which arrived, Minho pushed on to get to that one gas station whose tired-of-life workers didn't make any fuss about selling him the cigarettes he would ask for, in place of his father.

It had become common practice for the man to send his son out to purchase him those bottles of liquor he loved so dearly and those packets of cigarettes he so treasured, and Minho put up no fight at the request.

Even that cold, December evening, the boy left for the station with nothing other than a, "Yes, father," a black parka over his thin sweatshirt, and boots that reached his ankles which he hadn't bothered tying up all the way.

His eyelashes fluttered as he strained to keep his eyes open against the wind which pushed at him, dotted with flakes that only diminished his vision.

Perhaps it was partially his fault that he felt so terribly frozen, bones shivering at the temperature, for he hadn't dressed thickly enough, and yet he recalled the last time he had not left the moment he was told to, and his shivers were caused by something far worse than the chill.

Snow was beginning to coat the sidewalk and tarmac, painting the world with its luminous presence, but Minho couldn't appreciate it.

His knees felt like those of a freshly born calf, wobbly and unstable, his stomach deprived of food for too long, and he knew well enough that if he didn't find shelter soon, he would collapse to the ground in a heap and be buried by the snow, to be discovered maybe the following day.

Tucking his musings of a possible death to the corner of his worries, he swivelled his head left to right in search of a shop, an alley － anything in which he could be protected from the raging weather.

And then the flickering of a sign caught his eye, one he recognised to belong to the stationery he yearly bought his school supplies from.

No second of hesitancy washed over him prior to his feet trudging to salvation, no matter the knowledge that his trip would be delayed and his father would be displeased crossed his mind.

Sliding one hand out from its warmth to fumble with the door handle until grasping and turning it, Minho hurried into the shop and instantly slammed the entrance shut, not wanting to let the cold in.

"Hi, how can I help you?"

It was as if a part of him hadn't taken into consideration the fact that somebody would be present in the stationery, for the moment he heard the accented words directed at him, he spun around so quickly he nearly lost his balance, and came face to face with a brunet behind the counter.

Practically the same height and skin pale, a baffled smile on plush lips adorned by dimples, a boy clad in a baby blue shirt and a navy sweater vest watched him, hands set upon the register.

Minho couldn't find it in him to reply, no structured sentence willing to form itself, and instead he gazed upon the other opposite him with a racing heart, until his eyes noted the red nametag pinned to the top-left of the vest, on which, along with a smiley face, was written the name Chan.


	3. ↳ 2: cigarettes

The car was parked off to the side of the road, Chan still seated in the passenger seat and Minho out, resting against the hood of the car with a cigarette between his cut lips, smoke inflating his chest.

Chan hated him smoking, the imagery bringing back the memories of scenes he accidentally witnessed of his partner's father, some years ago.

Minho hated that he smoked for the same reason, and yet because he knew it would irritate Chan he did it, close enough to be seen and near enough for the smell to infiltrate the car.

The glittering and crumbling end of the stick, now between his index and middle finger, had a flame which died and rebirthed with his every inhale, and the brown-headed male cursed its revival.

Time was passing but he failed to notice it, and somehow he also failed to catch the sound of the car door opening, steps crunching the hardening snow beneath them and drawing nearer.

"How much longer do you plan on freezing yourself for?"

The question held no malice, even if it were the first phrase they uttered since their last fiery discussion. It was an inquiry of genuine wonder, and Minho believed he heard mild concern beneath.

He kept his eyes averted and drew a long inhale from the cigarette, holding the warmth in and then letting the grey clouds leave from his red-tipped nose.

"The first time we met it was snowing."

Minho paused, the abrupt change of atmosphere being almost tangible as Chan apprehensively took those two steps to be fully at his boyfriend's side, and replicated his position against the car in silence.

"It was snowing much more than this, though. This － This is nothing."

Another drag from his cigarette.

"I thought you were cute the moment I saw you," Chan went on to confess, as if he hadn't already done so a dozen times, "but also strange, because who in their right mind would leave the house in such a storm to go to a damn stationery?"

Minho dryly chuckled, nodding his head in agreement and letting his sights drop to the white and orange stick in his grasp.

It felt like it had all occurred a lifetime ago; those afternoons hidden in the shop and wild nights escaping from home, a blur in his recollection, mixed into a concoction of their passionate mornings and docile adventures.

He pondered where those times went. Perhaps it had been too long since they laughed, too long since they cried, too long since they felt anything. Perhaps it had been too long since they even hugged.

Minho chucked the cigarette to the ground and toed the already dying flame until it was squashed, lifting his boot to see the grey ashes smeared into the white ice.

He sighed, letting his eyes flutter shut and breathing deeply, feeling the chill line him from the inside.

Chan squirmed and Minho looked to the man he still loved, the man whose voice would chase away nightmares and whose hands held together the latter's shattered pieces.

It had all been so long ago, far too long.

Urged by the want to feel something － anything, Minho suddenly encased Chan in his embrace, palms sitting upon his back, splayed open until his fingers clutched desperately at the material of the jacket, and his face nestled into the gap between the hot skin of his partner's neck and the woollen scarf wrapped around it.

Chan remained immobile, and then the blizzard hit, a storm of emotions neither could decipher, but which brought the dam in the shorter's eyes to burst, tears trailing down blotchy cheeks.

His arms fastened around Minho, securely, desperately, as if he were a fleeting being that would disappear at any given moment.

"I love you, Minho. I love you."

His words were mixed with sobs, sounds of choking on the surges of feelings that crushed him, and Minho held him tighter, eyes squeezing shut.

He didn't reply, it wasn't necassary to say anything in response to the statement.

The touch they shared sparked an emotion within his chest that was ineffable, and he knew that he still so tragically loved Chan, no matter what had happened and could happen.


	4. ↺ 3: bloom

As silent and ominous as he had been, Chan let Minho stay with him inside the stationery for as long as he needed, abreast the small heater the worker had kept plugged in beneath his spot at the counter.

Chan didn't ask questions and Minho didn't mind, for instead the former attempted to start up conversation and make laughter bubble from between the taller's purple-tinted lips.

It was that day, so horrible in its beginning and much worse in its ending, but with such a lovely middle, that Minho fell for the boy in the blue sweater vest.

Both the same age, naïve and curious, the brunet in need of love and the brunet brimming with compassion to share. They spent countless afternoons together and each time Minho was sent to buy alcohol or cigarettes, he'd stop by that stationery and get lost in chatting with the part-timer.

He didn't care that his tardiness upset his father, and he didn't mind the colours his soft flesh morphed into each time the man expressed his rage.

As long as Chan was there, nothing else really mattered at all.

Christmas was soon to come and that meant days of not seeing his crush, the shop closing for the holidays.

Though the two of them didn't attend the same school, they lived relatively close, and so it was when Chan suggested they meet on Christmas eve at his home, that Minho felt a rush of excitement.

The boy tended to spend the feast alone in his room, and the idea of spending it with someone like Chan, someone he profoundly cared for, meant more than he could express.

That Christmas eve was the first night he snuck out of his house, the first night he sprinted to Chan's place with the address the other had given him repeating within his head, eyes wide and a grin of shock from the disbelief that he had actually just done such a thing as escape.

It was the first night he knocked on that polished wooden door, feet anxiously shuffling upon the snow and nose dripping, but an endless current of adrenaline running through his veins.

It was the first night Chan introduced him to his family as a friend, and it was the first night Minho felt as if they could become his own.

It was a night of many firsts, but most importantly the night of their first kiss, illuminated by a bedside lamp which radiated comfort with its warm yellow, within the disorderly bedroom.

Sharing one mattress and nestled beneath the hefty quilt and blankets, Minho stared at the boy laying on his side, facing him, who blinked back at him with a shimmer in his eyes not even stars could mimic.

The pillowcase smelled of Chan's shampoo and the heat they shared dazed the brunet's tired mind until the thumping of his enthusiastic heart slowed to a relaxed beat, and he leaned slowly closer, gaze alternating between the other's drooping eyes and puffy lips.

Chan didn't move away, rather he watched on with wonder until their mouths met in a chaste kiss, and they fell into a blissful state which went undisturbed until they parted, moments later.

Eyelids dragged open so that they could lock their irises in that same look as before, and Minho held his breath for he feared his friend's reaction to the kiss.

It was only when he heard the whispered words, lined with an almost pleading tone which left Chan's rose-coloured lips, that he eased.

"Kiss me again."


	5. ↳ 4: warm

The constant, ragged hum of the engine filled the long settled silence, interjected by Chan's occasional sniffling and shuffling as he subtly attempted drying the tears that wouldn't stop flowing.

It had been a while since Minho had witnessed such a contorted expression of suffering upon his lover's face, and he desperately wished to erase it, but words were hard to form and comfort was a struggle give.

Instead, unable to bear the muffled sounds of his boyfriend's crying, he parted one quivering hand from the steering wheel and directed it to the stereo's power button.

"Do you still feel something?"

He paused, eyes snapping away from the little knob to refocus on the road, but his demeanor remained unchanging.

Some moments passed and Chan roughly wiped at a trickle along his hollowing cheek, shifting in his seat to face Minho better.

"Does your heart not beat for me anymore? Don't you care?"

The intensity of the questions hung between them, like rotting corpses dangling from their own noose, heavy and terrifying to confront.

"I would never stop caring for you," Minho swallowed thickly, gaze flickering to his right and instantly returning to the front again once he saw the brunet's knitted brows.

"You're the love of my life, Chan. We are tied together far too tightly for the knot to come undone."

Chan let out an undignified snort, crossing his arms at his chest and moving to look to the painted fields from the window.

"You sure have a funny way of showing your love."

"Well, so do you."

The other turned again, a scowl marring his typically sweet features, feebly masking the turmoil he internally endured.

"At least I'm trying."

"I've been trying hard all my life, Chan. I'm tired."

A pause in their conversation, possible insinuations of what Minho's words meant polluting the shorter's mind, clouding it with abrupt worry and panic.

"Don't say things like that, please. They scare me."

Minho apprehensively met the only other set of irises in the vehicle, ones which made his heartbeat stutter and throat constrict with guilt.

He looked away.

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright."

Their conversation came to a standstill once again, and this time Minho didn't let the silence have its win, turning on the radio instead.

It took some time to find a station which worked in the bad weather and on the distant road they drove along, but he found one and let it be, songs fizzling in and out of clarity much like his thoughts.

An interruption of sorts occured when a warmth tentatively dragged upon his thigh, then found its home intertwined with his fingers, palm embracing palm as Chan squeezed his hold on Minho's hand.

No matter what, Chan maintained his warmth, soothing, the owner of a touch so comforting that would calm him even during his wildest nights of fear and afternoons of despair.

Chan was an antidote to his pain, yet the blade that also inflicted it, and Minho pondered whether they had become frighteningly dependent on each other, enough for them to never let go.

Would they cut themselves until they bled to death, or would they be strong enough to part ways?

Those were the two options he posed, for he couldn't be sure if there was one in between.


	6. ↺ 5: stain

It appeared youth was flying past, but their love remained as fresh as a rose bud in early May, vibrant and with the potential of growing into something far more marvellous.

Afternoons at the stationery and escapades to that all-night café in town, a fair distance away from their homes in case their parents attempted finding them. It was riveting, each meet-up like a mission to fulfill, and each date like a precious secret they both held dear.

Perhaps it was foolish of them to believe that life could be so easy, and that love had a smoothly paved path prepared for them to skip along, hand in hand, but they were only almost eighteen, not fully aware of life's ways, even if Minho had already had a taste.

Solely after some months had Chan begun to take note of strange facts which were maybe hardly noticable by mere on-lookers.

With time, Minho started arriving later at the stationery, fatigued and worn down, and Chan paid it no mind, initially blaming it on stress related to school. However, it was a banal way of avoiding digging past a thinly covered truth, and when Minho once arrived staggering, a blotch of purple peeking out from behind the scratchy looking scarf around his neck, Chan couldn't bury his concern any longer.

Minho was a reserved person, and the brunet resented admitting it, but he never urged his boyfriend into giving him answers, stopping himself at '_How are you?'_ and '_Is everything okay?'_ only to receive vague responses he let satisfy him.

When a number of weeks passed and he had not seen or heard from Minho, the worry he had locked away in a chest and buried deep within fine sand exploded, panic gripping him to the point that sleep was nowhere near his time awake at night, and peace was far from his unfocused mind.

Chan didn't know what to do other than defy Minho's expressed wish of the former never visiting his home unless in serious emergencies, and going to that mumbled address he had etched into his brain.

_This was an emergency, surely_, he repeated to himself, as he hurriedly waddled through the blanket of snow which coated the sidewalks and every other thing, creating a wonderland of sorts which, in that moment, Chan found anything but magical.

He was shaking from the cold, despite the wool gloves protecting his hands and bountiful layers on his torso, but the low temperature couldn't compare to the ice that ran down his spine when he spotted a familiar figure, quite literally stumbling out the front door to a home.

Not thinking twice, he broke into a sprint, the fastest he could manage, and came to a messy stop some metres away from the boy who had yet to notice him.

And then he looked up, and it seemed that whatever colour he had left in his face had drained as his eyes came into contact with Chan's horrified ones.

"Ch-Chan, I can explain."

Fresh cuts just barely above his eyebrow and upon his left cheek were profusely bleeding, tracing the curves of his face as they proceeded to drip and stain that ratty sweater of his.

Bottom lip swollen, one of his eyes the same, patches of unnatural tints forming upon the skin which Chan could see, and slamming still resounding from within the house Minho had come out from.

Things were far too clear to misinterpret, even if Chan sincerely wished he was wrong and it was all a misunderstanding － but no, he couldn't ignore that which was so blatantly obvious anymore.

"You don't need to."


	7. ↳ 6: what if

The previously smooth trails left by the red which fled from the cuts on his knuckles were now dried and smeared, faded and hardly visible, if not for the metallic smell they left behind.

Flakes of snow had by then begun to fall at a lazy pace, wistfully twirling within the breeze that swept through the trees around them. The wheels turned and the engine rumbled, Chan's hand remained clutching Minho's and Minho remained intent on driving.

Who knew how many kilometres they had travelled, how much time had passed, before the patches of green morphed into grey buildings and bulky vehicles, nothing but nameless faces going about their own lives, faking smiles and forcing laughter.

Chan wondered if they were all as sad as him, perhaps deep inside enough for them to not even be aware of the perilous beast that could jolt awake within them.

Streets were mostly vacant of life, empty and dark, the afternoon sun doing its best to shine through the thick clouds which seemingly encased the world, yet dismally failing to spread its warmth.

"We'll be there soon."

He knew they were getting closer to the airport, he knew they would soon part, he knew that knot which Minho said was impossible to untie, would soon come undone.

A heat stung his eyes and then tears dripped over the narrow rims, shimmering as they fell along his exhausted face and seeped into his jeans.

Perhaps their time was running out, their dramatic play coming to a close, their symphonic piece humming the last notes, but he didn't want the end to give its final blow.

No, bleeding and collapsing, crying and in pain, Chan would never let go of his love, not after all they had been through and all they had sacrificed.

"Minho, do you love me?"

His boyfriend's grip fastened around the steering wheel, turning it to guide the car around a corner and into a side street he knew to lengthen the trip, for even if he didn't want to come to terms with what his heart yelled, he couldn't end their time together so soon.

"I love you, Chan."

The words were strained, their stitching weak and ready to fall apart, but Chan believed them, thirstily gulped them down to fill his cracking heart.

"I love you too, Minho. So much."

A silence, and Chan shuddered an inhale, shutting his eyes to attempt stopping the flow of tears which he had kept pent up inside him for far too long.

"What if I don't want us to arrive? What if I don't want to go?"

The car halted at a red light, and Minho dropped his head back against the top of his seat.

"What if we're just hurting each other more by staying together?"

A whisper, that's all it was.

"What if the pain is far greater once we force ourselves apart?"


	8. ↺ 7: moonlight

Chan couldn't take it.

The marks, the scars, the burns which stained Minho's frail body, it felt as if each injury were inflicted directly upon himself as well and the suffering was something he wasn't sure he could put up with for much more.

For how long had this been going on? Why didn't he say what was wrong? Why didn't he try find help? How did he manage to withstand the pain all these years?

Questions after questions, yet none which Chan received answers to.

He wanted to help, he wanted to liberate the bird in a cage his boyfriend was and let him free, where nothing but love and fondness could come near him.

Chan wanted Minho to escape, flee to safety, flee to his open arms, but the latter was scared, young and afraid, wary of what the future held for him should he do as his partner suggested.

"I'm not capable of handling myself," he said, back pressed to Chan's chest as they sat upon the part-timer's bed, warm and comforted, late into the night.

"Where would I go? What money would I live off of? A student with below average grades who has yet to even complete his studies. Who would hire me?"

They were valid concerns, Chan recognised this even through his frantic panic to rescue the other, but it couldn't be that there was no other option for them to choose.

"Come stay with me, Minho. My parents like you, they wouldn't mind you living with us until you find your footing."

"They like me now, but how will they feel when they find out we hold each other like this and kiss when we're alone?"

Chan fell silent, uncertain of how to assure his boyfriend that they would be okay, that surely life would spare them from some of the agony and let them find peace in their love.

After those shared words they avoided tackling the topic again, Chan simply fretting over Minho's wounds and cleaning them when he could, but biting back his phrases of concern.

It wasn't until they both turned nineteen and graduated that he settled on going through with the plan he had been formulating since that one conversation, money he had saved up for university and his future, being shoved － along with various items of clothing and necessities － into his rucksack.

"We can't do this. Chan, you're ruining your life for me."

"I'm not ruining anything. Together we'll be happy, free. Don't you want that?"

Minho gulped, breathless after having run to the gas station with his own bag on his back and the pitiful savings he had in his pockets.

"I want you to be happy."

"Being with you will make me so."

"Not if we can barely stay afloat."

Chan let his stare sit upon Minho's shadowed face, highlighted by the white light of the overhead moon.

"Money holds no real value to me," he spoke, voice hushed, "If we cry, we'll cry together. If we starve, we'll starve together. If we die, we'll die together."

"But it's not what you deserve."

"It's what I want."


	9. ↳ 8: smile

Questions were left with no resolution, but continuously bounced off the walls of their minds in search of one.

Understanding Chan's unwillingness to arrive at the airport, for he secretly felt the same, Minho drove to a café near-by and parked slightly farther along the road.

Engine off, radio silent, and then their breathing was all that could be heard within the vehicle, tense yet quiet, as if they were both trying to be invisible to the other.

"Let's get going, Chan," Minho eventually spoke up, not looking to the man but focusing on removing his seatbelt and reaching for the door handle instead.

"Babe."

He froze, blinking at the faint reflection he could see of the brunet on his window.

"Call me babe, at least until the end of today, and I will call you honey, like I always have."

Minho didn't respond until some seconds passed, and Chan squirmed in his seat, uncomfortable and with a sorrow glazing his eyes.

"Is that not okay? I'm sorry. Just ignore －"

"No, don't worry," The taller interrupted his partner's anxious rambling, "It's okay."

He turned his head to glance over at Chan, who lifted his gaze to meet their irises in a stare which appeared to hold many secrets, a number of which they couldn't decipher.

Minho gave a warm smile, and even if empathy shimmered upon his features, the sight made his boyfriend's heart thud as if he were falling in love all over again.

When was the last time Minho wore such a sweet smile, one which wasn't plastered on his dry lips like a stage actor's make-up?

"Being called by a pet name still makes you all gooey inside, doesn't it?"

It was probably supposed to sound almost teasing, but the fondness which held his words together was far too overpowering compared to anything else and it made Chan flush pink, dusting his ears a cherry red.

"Being called pet names by you makes me gooey inside, yes."

The curved line of Minho's lips briefly faltered, a twinge of pain striking the muscle trapped in his chest, and then it returned, perhaps brighter than before and genuine.

His boyfriend was the most adorable man in the universe, certainly. He was adorable when they first met in the stationery, and he's adorable now, at twenty-four-years of age.

Minho refrained from voicing such thoughts, but his expression had their emotion written all over, and Chan smiled back at him, warmth spreading through his veins.

Unaware of his actions, far too entranced with admiring the face of his partner, Minho shifted minimally in his seat and lifted a hand to delicately cup the other's jaw, hot palm setting upon a cool cheek.

It was natural, an instinct he couldn't refrain from allowing to control him that made Chan press back into his lover's touch, hungry for more and nuzzling it in happiness as his eyes flickered from Minho's own to his lap, timid.

The latter let out a breath, tranquil, for in that moment, for some reason, everything felt perfect, as if it would be alright.

In the moment, he began to consider the fact that maybe, just maybe, they didn't need to keep cutting each other or part ways to avoid shedding more blood.

"Let's go eat, babe."


	10. ↺ 9: corrosion

A year, then two, then another once more, went by.

Time was on a racing track, going ahead at full speed, and perhaps the two of them were falling behind, tripping and scraping their knees until their flesh had begun to shed droplets of crimson.

Stuck in the past, stuck in the ways of their youth, now twenty-two-years of age, they lived in a decrepit apartment far from where they once called their home, a scant number of belongings filling the miniscule rooms, and just enough food in the fridge to keep them going for a week － if they stuck to strict meals.

It was exhausting, draining, going on with their lives without knowing for certain whether they would make it to the following year, but no despair lined the peeling walls or tainted their determined souls.

Poor but happy, their love being the only lighthouse on a dark shore, strongly illuminating the ominous seas.

Chan left his job at the stationery and found a new occupation at the local convenience store, whilst attending the cheapest university in the city in the hopes of getting a degree.

Minho instead found his place in a delivery company, driving trucks to and from distant places and carrying hefty boxes to people's houses and shops' backdoors.

The first years they tackled, they faced them together, hold on one another's hand secure and unwavering, sharing nights of hot adoration and mornings of groggy cuddles, on a mattress which would squeak and whine at every motion, its springs sore with age.

On the rare occasion neither were far too tired, they would go on dates, perhaps drive to that uninhabited valley and enjoy picnics, laying upon that tattered blanket beneath the springtime sun, or maybe go to the popular karaoke bar and sing whilst the rain outside beat upon the ground.

They were content, presuming their love to be enough, but it was on days that one would get sick and they had to spend their savings to buy medicine that Minho's heart would harden, and it was on days Chan came home grumpy from work that they bickered.

The fights were small initially, trivial and typically pointless, resolved with delicate kisses and sugary phrases shared by partners, but the more Minho watched his boyfriend struggle, the more he hated their situation, their decision, their love.

It wasn't blatant, but he could see the weariness in Chan's eyes become more constant, his hand which caressed his body as they embraced upon their bed, feeling his ribs prominently sticking out.

Those soft cheeks were becoming hollow, those glimmering irises drying like a puddle of water in a desert, and that smooth chuckle fading into a coarse laughter.

He didn't want this, not all.

He was angry at Chan, for if he hadn't urged him into them escaping together, the latter would be attending a sophisticated university by then, with plenty of friends and a future of success.

Did it matter if he would have probably ended up homeless or beaten to death had he not left his home? Not when Chan was made to suffer as the result of his salvation.

He couldn't accept it, that his boyfriend was so willing to throw away all the opportunities layed out before him to merely stay by his side.

Was he worthy of such love?

Concerns and thoughts akin to those afore mentioned polluted the brunet's mind and refused to leave, rather they increased in their intensity until they hovered over his every word.

He wasn't aware, though in hindsight it was fairly obvious, that he was trying to push Chan away, make the man hate him as much as he hated himself, make him leave so that he could live a better life, one with a stable job and joy.

Their apartment became a war zone, battles fought until tears were shed and throats had gone hoarse, and then Minho would tuck the shorter into his arms and selfishly hold him close whilst he choked on cracking sobs, because even if he wanted Chan to let him go and move on, he couldn't find the power to say goodbye.

And so it was a constant push and pull, a rising and falling tide, arguments shoved beneath carpets to make way for smouldering kisses and fumbled words of apology.

Money never was the problem. After all, Chan had adamantly stated numerous times it was of no importance to him. The problem was the self-destructive tendencies which prodded their way into Minho's daily behaviour.

Guilt, stress, empathy for his partner who stubbornly suffered in silence, and the contrasting emotions he felt, were unwavering factors.

He was greedy, wanting to keep their love alive for the sake of his happiness, because while he needed Chan to be happy, he didn't think Chan needed him.


	11. ↳ 10: cracking

It was quaint and warm, soft tingles travelling across their skin, which had been chilled by the harsh wind outside, at the much appreciated change of temperature.

Framed photographs lined the peach-painted walls, capturing panoramas and forests, bridges and cityscapes － none showing the presence of a human.

Chan glanced around from over the tips of his fingers, palms cupped at his mouth as he breathed into them and rubbed the two together.

"This place is cute," he airily commented, feeling at ease in the homely environment.

Minho nodded at his side, only partially attentive as he was busy with choosing where they would sit. Once settling at a table by a large window, the shorter began unwrapping the chequered scarf from around his neck, and his boyfriend silently watched him, pondering.

The air was sweet, with the aroma of hot chocolate and biscuits filling their lungs as it wafted to them from the kitchen.

It was nostalgic, being in such a café and smelling such a scent after all those years.

A night during which they had secretly met up at that one coffee place, some fair distance away from their homes, back when they had only just become friends, fogged up Minho's mind and his eyes traced Chan's features, noting what had changed about them as he pictured a seventeen-year-old version of him abreast the latter.

His face had gotten sharper, but maybe that was heightened due to weight-loss, and his puppy eyes had dimmed their glow, but that was definitely due to the pain Minho had caused them.

He sighed, letting his gaze do as Chan's did and stare outside at the occassional snowflake which pranced along the wind that carried it.

There they were in such a soothing establishment, mostly alone, save for that man working on his tablet in the corner and that teen sipping coffee whilst scrolling through her phone. It was the perfect opportunity to talk about what was going to happen to them now; for how long they would be apart, for how long Chan would be away － if he were coming back at all.

After a night of screams and tears, the withering man had rasped that he would go visit his friend in Australia and that said male would be paying for his trip.

He confessed he needed time away from everything. A chance to breathe, to laugh, to live, to have a break.

Minho knew he was suffocating his partner, but wasn't that what he wanted? He wanted Chan to leave him, be free of the struggles and burdens that came with their love.

And yet he couldn't deny that it hurt, that he didn't want to watch as Chan would wave him goodbye and get onto that plane.

Was this their last meal together? Was this the last time they would sit opposite one another as lovers?

The questions felt like an impending death, for surely his shattered self and sliver of will to keep fighting through life were connected to Chan. Should that connection be severed, wouldn't it mean death?

They ordered and when their drinks arrived, Minho hesitantly took a sip from the hot cup without cooling it first, enjoying the burn which ran down his throat, as masochistic as it was.

The coffee tasted like the one they used to have at their old get-away café, not all that strong, perhaps even far too watered down.

Then he reached for one of the offered tea biscuits on the saucer and noticed their darker bottoms, and the sight reminded him of the time Chan and him had first tried baking and ended up burning their tester batch of cookies.

It wasn't a stab in the chest nor a sudden pain. No, it was a growing twinge of regret that throbbed and morphed into a monster of different emotions, until it became so large it pushed against his ribs, fighting to break out.

A streak of water made its way down his face, following the dip below his cheekbone until it halted at his jaw.

"Minho, why are you crying?"


	12. ◎ 11: it's okay : epilogue

At times, words have a greater consequence than most pay mind to. They could be triggers or fluffy blankets, weave tales or write truths. It was like when one has a bad day, and a loved one asks what's wrong, and the former can't help but crumble and weep into the open arms awaiting them for a delicate embrace.

That was how Minho reacted to the question so innocently spoken.

Tears hadn't left him in long enough a time that he had forgotten how they felt on his skin and tasted on his lips. He locked them so profoundly within himself, that he forgot where they had even been hidden.

Then, however, they had found their way of escape and refused to stop running, no matter how he yelled for them to do so.

Chan didn't hesitate before arising from his chair and pressing the other against his torso, wrapping his arms around him in a secure hug, as if attempting to hold the pieces together.

"Honey, it's okay. Everything's okay. Why are you sobbing?"

Nothing was okay, nothing had been okay, and he doubted things would ever be okay.

Minho buried his face into his partner's sweater, eyes wrinkled closed and lips quivering as he did his best to keep them shut, muffling the hiccups and sobs which left him.

"You need to go, but I don't want you to. I'm － I'm so selfish."

The standing male frowned, bewilderment dotting his expression aside from the tears that threatened to overflow past the rims of his own eyes.

"What are you talking about? You're not selfish for something like that. It makes me really happy that you still care enough to not want to be apart fro－"

"That's not what I mean!"

Chan startled back, almost completely splitting their hug, and was met by the sight of Minho who glared up at him with leaking, swelling eyes and cheeks tinted red.

"Sirs, is everything alright?"

Momentarily, the shortest of the two had utterly disregarded where they were, the deteriorating situation with his boyfriend having taken over Chan's senses.

He didn't raise his head to look to the waiter but merely waved him off, remaining transfixed on his still weeping partner who desperately wiped at his tears in anger.

"We're fine, thank you. I'm sorry for the disturbance."

A pause, and the waiter was on his way, understanding that his presence was not welcomed in what seemed to be a personal matter.

Alone once more, Chan dropped to his knees before his boyfriend, ignoring the subtle pain the action inflicted upon their bony caps.

"What's going on, honey? What did you mean?"

Minho averted his gaze, feeling like a child being consoled by his parent after getting injured whilst playing.

The silence became heavier, and the intensity of his lover's stare upon his frame sent a heat rushing through his veins which was incomparable to the sensation of the latter's palms setting upon his thighs.

"Minho?"

"I want you to be happy, healthy. You can't be if you stay with someone like me."

The brunet blinked and it briefly appeared they had gone back five years, seeing a nineteen-year-old Minho looking back at him with wide, panicked eyes beneath the moonlight at that gas station.

"Look what I've done. You work yourself until you're exhausted, you've lost weight and you're growing weaker. You come home just about ready to collapse and we still hardly have enough money to even keep our ruddy apartment."

"This isn't what I want for you, it isn't at all, I swear. You deserve comfort and a loving environment, food to keep your sweet cheeks full and medicine to help you when there are viruses going around. You deserve so much more than what you have, and you could have had it if it weren't for me."

"Honey, wait."

"No. Chan, listen, please. I'm nothing but an anchor tied around your neck. I've been weighing you down for years and it hurts so much to see you constantly giving up everything for me each day. You're crumbling and breaking and I can't stand it, Chan."

Minho gasped for breath as if physically strained, salted water still rapidly dripping down his face contorted by sadness, splashing onto the pale skin of his lover's hands atop his lap.

Chan's own features were shimmering at the cause of the leaking faucets he could no longer block and it had become a struggle to inhale, lungs shrinking in within themselves at the pain he was overwhelmed by.

"Is this why you've been so cold for the last few years? You've － You've been trying to push me away, haven't you?"

"I need you to be free, Chan. You can't continue to ruin yourself for me. I'm not worth it. You don't need me to be happy in your life. You can make it much better without me in the picture."

His eyes turned stern, a subtle frown marring his brow as his hold on the other's legs became firmer.

"Minho, you are not the one to decide such things."

"But －"

"I've listened to you, now you must listen to me."

Silence and Chan waited, as if to confirm that his partner wouldn't interrupt.

"What did I tell you the night we ran away?"

"That you don't care about money."

The brunet gave a light shake of the head, causing a confused glint to appear in Minho's eyes.

"I said that, but what else did I say?"

He paused and his gaze softened ever so minimally, in a way that only Minho could have possibly noticed the fondness blended with determination which lined his expression.

"Being with you is how I am happy. Sick, poor, working all these hours for meagre portions of food means utterly nothing if I can have you in my life. You bring me peace and warmth that no luxurious clothing could ever give and no amount of money could buy. Without you, I wouldn't be able to carry on, can't you see that?"

"I'm selfish for making you stay with me, Chan. I'm making you stay because you're the sole source of light I can ever have. You really don't need me, baby. You're just confused, you're pitying me."

"There's nothing for me to pity. In front of me I see a capable, dedicated and handsome man, with many skills and positive attributes, whose been through so much but is one of the strongest people I know."

Minho let out a disregarding snort, blatantly showing his disbelief and Chan rolled his eyes with a smile, moving his palms along the denim to clasp around the former's hands.

"Believe me, darling, I need you as much as I love you, and that's more than words can describe."

Somewhere along the way, the sobs ebbed away and Minho's shoulders stopped their jolting.

"Are you sure?"

"Min, are you really asking me if I'm sure, after all these years we've spent together?"

Minho let out a feeble laugh, coarse and messy, but his grin sent off a flutter within Chan's chest, and his pupils drank in the rare sight and stored it as one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.

"I guess it's a bit dumb to ask now."

The brunet hummed, beginning to push himself up on his feet and placing a soft kiss to Minho's forehead while doing so, fingers still clutching his boyfriend's hands.

"If we cry, we'll cry together. If we starve, we'll starve together. If we die, we'll die together. No matter what, Minho, you remain the love of my life and the reason I smile. I will never regret leaving my home to be with you, because you are the home I need."

Minho's lashes fluttered, staring up at the other with such emotion that Chan could feel it as if it were added to his own.

"You're my home too, Chan. I love you."

He smiled, thumb gently rubbing circles on Minho's palm.

"I love you more, you dork."

Going back to his seat with one more kiss to Minho, but to his still damp left cheek instead, Chan huffed a sigh as he plopped down into the chair and gave a furtive look outside, at the consistently falling snow that thickened with time.

He turned his gaze back to Minho and smiled at finding the other already watching him, the smile reflected upon his bitten lips and his irises glittering like their first meet-up at the café they used to visit.

"Looks like the flight's cancelled, doesn't it?"

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
